


where they from

by perissologist



Series: a little less conversation [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: “Alright, then,” he starts, “if you’re really trying to convince me that you’re just a regular guy, then you can teach me that parkour shit you do—then we might actually be on the same level.”Nightwing lets out a surprised laugh. His eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “It’s not parkour. It’s acrobatics.”Jason rolls his eyes. “Right. You’re really helping yourself out there.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Where They From choreography: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cbNqoAeRto  
> Trini Dem Girls choreography: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJaTxaulAMo

“Alright,” Jason says as he paces restlessly back and forth, running his hand through his already disheveled hair for the dozenth time since they got backstage. The crew currently performing strikes the last pose of their routine, then climbs, chests heaving, to their feet, grinning and bowing for the cheering audience crowded inside of the abandoned theater. “We’ve been prepping this routine for weeks, so there’s no excuse not to get it right. Kyle, listen for your cue—Duke, make sure you take note of where Kori is when you transition from front center to back left—and Roy, tie your goddamn shoelaces, if you trip and fall on your face again during your flip I’m kicking you out of the crew. Duke, you said the scouts were going to be here tonight, right?”

 

“According to Twitter,” Duke shrugs, adjusting the metallic gold baseball cap pulled low over his brow. “Apparently, these are exactly the kind of events they frequent looking for dancers to compete in Street Fleet.”

 

“Right, right,” Jason says, and paces even harder, whirling around so abruptly that the curtain beside him flaps in his wake. Kori and Roy exchange a knowing look; then Kori reaches out and grabs Jason by the arm, pulling him to a stop.

 

“Jason, calm yourself,” she says, voice firm but gentle. “There is no need to be so nervous. We have been saving this routine for the perfect moment to perform it, and tonight is that moment. We will be fine.”

 

Jason deflates, attempting a half-hearted glare. “I’m not nervous.”

 

Roy lifts an eyebrow. “Tell that to the groove you just wore in the floor.”

 

“Jay, we got this,” Kyle says, resting a steadying hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I’ve been watching the other crews, and honestly, we could probably show any of them up even without our best routine—but with Missy, we can’t lose.”

 

“Yeah, man, Missy Elliot’s got our back,” Duke laughs. “What are you afraid of?”

 

Before Jason can respond, an uptempo drumbeat begins thumping from the other side of the stage, a woman’s voice chanting _“What—what—what—what, wh-wh-wh-what—”_ over the hits. “That’s us!” Duke hisses, and all discussion of nerves and recruiters are dropped as they scramble to get into position behind the curtain. Missy yelps _“Shorty what? Dance that you doing is dumb—how they do where you from,”_ and Jason looks up, catches the wink Roy throws him from his right and the small, confident smile Kori gives him from the left. 

 

_“Sticking out your tongue girl, but you know you too young. A buncha girls do it and the shit looks fun—that’s how they do it where we from. You know it don’t start till one—that’s how they do it where they from.”_

 

The cymbals crash, and the five of them burst out from behind the curtains, immediately sliding down onto their knees as the crowd goes wild against the stage. Jason lets a confident grin flash onto his face, teeth bared in the heat of the spotlights, the music so loud it rattles his bones. From the knees it’s an effortless roll back up onto the balls of their feet, followed by knees curving inwards as they bounce low to the floor—then back upright to spin in sharp quarter-turns on the flat of the right foot as the hip rotates to throw the left leg out. Their movements are quick, aggressive and playful, limbs as loose as a rag doll’s when the rap grinds down on consonants and then back to sharp, yanking movements when the words fall out faster than coins clattering from a slot machine. The routine is fast, too, no room for breath between one line and the next, the soles of their shoes practically skipping against the floor as they snap from one move to move. Missy declares _“I’m a big mack, make you wanna eat that,”_ and the five of them stomp their feet flat on the stage and pull their arms in against their sides, _“like m-m-m-m yak it to the yak”_ and their entire bodies seize with a shake that shoots like an electrical shock from their knees up to their shoulders. 

 

The crowd eats it up, screams their delight and jumps to show their enthusiasm—and then they get even louder the moment Pharrell’s verse drops and Roy, Jason, and Kori fall back to let Kyle and Duke slide forward on their knees to begin breaking against the stage. The two move equally but opposite to each other, like reflections on either side of a mirror; even as he holds the routine in the back, Jason feels a swell of pride in his chest as he watches Kyle and Duke kick out, pull in, tip onto their heads to spin like twin dreidels as Pharrell chants _“lyrically I’m Optimus Prime, look how I drive, look at my ride, when I go by smoke in your eyes—”_

 

The drumbeat clatters on, relentless, carrying them to the end of the song. Kori takes the lead on the last verse, leaping into the air with her legs kicking out as the boys dip low to the floor behind her. She lands flat on her feet and sways low on her haunches, head swinging; the motion of her red ponytail whipping around her head is near-hypnotic, as in tune with the rest of her body as another limb. Abruptly, the beat drops out into a heavy, deliberate bass, and all five Outlaws run forward and leap out into the crowd as the song turns into a deep, thumping chant that repeats _“Shawty what? How they do it where you from,”_ again and again. The crowd shrieks and dives aside, and the five land in a crouch, rising up a second later to stomp forward, knees bent, like predators prowling for prey. They reunite just as the beat cuts out and the song ends on one last, solemn _“That’s how they do it where they from,”_ leaving the crowd gaping in awe as they finish with their heads down and hands locked in front of them on their final pose. They hold it for one breath, two—then they break and look up, and the crowd floods in around them, their shouts nearly deafening, their faces filled with nothing but eager delight in the cool blue mood lighting that fills the theater. “Fuck yes!” Roy shouts above the din, and Jason just tips his head back and laughs, feeling like every nerve in his body is singing and alive. 

 

Eventually, the excitement calms just enough for the crowd to release them, and they meet up again in the less densely-packed area at the back of the theater, where a bunch of volunteers have set up a makeshift bar behind a counter. “Fuck, man,” Kyle laughs, clapping Jason on the back. “Like— _fuck_. We killed it.”

 

“I knew we would,” Duke says, grinning wide. “You can’t go wrong with Missy. You just can’t.”

 

“If there are scouts here tonight, I have every confidence that we have just secured our spot in Street Fleet,” Kori declares. “Truly, Jason, you have outdone yourself.”

 

Jason just smirks, tilting his head. “Aw, Kori. Giving me credit for the entire team’s work? I’ll take it.”

 

“I did not mean the performance, though you did flawlessly there as well,” Kori says, rolling her eyes fondly. “I meant the choreography. I think we can all agree that this routine was special. I thank you for it.”

 

Jason can feel himself flushing. It’s one thing to share in victorious bragging, but Kori’s genuine smile, the real looks of pride on his crewmates’ faces— “Fuck,” he mutters, reaching up to tug at the brim of his hat. “What are you trying to do, ruin my reputation?”

 

Roy lets out his signature sharp, barking laugh and hooks his elbow around Jason’s neck, pulling him in. “Aw, our lil Jaybird is blushing,” he coos, and as the Outlaws laugh Jason scowls and elbows him in the ribs to hide how relieved he is for the diversion. 

 

“Alright, alright,” he says, disentangling himself from Roy’s hold. “Who wants drinks?”

 

They spend the rest of the night watching the other performances and mingling with the crowd, Jason keeping an eye on Roy throughout to make sure he doesn't have anything stronger than a beer. The last crew finishes at one-thirty, to a smattering of enthusiastic cheers—but not two minutes after they exit the stage, the crowd begins to murmur, voices dropping in suppressed excitement as a whisper makes its way around the theater. Jason catches it in the corner from two guys and a girl in the Harlem crew, who glance surreptitiously around before turning to Jason. “You think Nightwing’s gonna show up tonight?” one of the guys asks, an almost conspiratorial quality to his voice.

 

Jason shrugs and brings his beer to his lips. “Dunno,” he says. “He supposed to?”

 

“According to my friend in the 401,” the girl says. “She heard it from her frontman, who heard it from his cousin, who supposedly knows Nightwing personally. Plus, this is the place to be if you want a shot at Street Fleet, and isn’t that why he’s in Gotham anyway?”

 

Jason lifts an eyebrow. “Is it?”

 

“Dude, c’mon,” says the second guy. “You think a dancer like him would pass up the chance to compete?”

 

“I don’t know, man,” Jason says. “I don’t know him.”

 

The dancers shrug and the conversation turns to other topics, but for the rest of the night, everywhere Jason goes he hears murmurs of Nightwing’s name, whispers of _“Do you think he’ll perform?”_ and _“Someone ask the DJ”_ and _“If he isn’t showing up in the next hour I’m leaving, I got work in the morning.”_ Eventually the clock hits three, and Jason finds Roy, Kori, Duke, and Kyle at the front of the theater, drinking with the stage techs.

 

“Alright, kids,” he says, clapping his hands to get their attention. “Shall we fuck off?”

 

The crew laughs and agrees, saying their goodbyes to the techs before following Jason as he heads towards the exit at the back of the theater. They’re about halfway through the crowd when a sudden, ear-splitting blast emanates from the DJ’s booth on the stage, shockingly loud and incredibly obnoxious; it takes a moment of shouting and covering his ears for Jason to realize that the noise is coming from the air horn the DJ is touting in his hand. “What the fuck?” Roy mutters, twisting around to look at the stage, and the crowd seems to agree, lowering their hands from their ears to boo in protest—but the DJ just laughs, lowers the horn, and leans into the mike. 

 

“Sorry, y’all,” he says, deep and amused, and as if on cue a skippy, tribal drumbeat begins thumping from the speakers, bouncing off the walls and echoing through the open room, “but y’all don’t want to miss this.”

 

A sudden beam of light drops down onto the stage, dusty and silvern, and Jason realizes with a start that it’s moonlight. The door to the skylight in the ceiling above the stage has swung open, and a dark figure is perched on the lip, a still silhouette against the clear night sky visible beyond. Without warning, it drops and begins plummeting towards the stage, and a startled gasp rises from the crowd, several people starting forward in alarm—but without missing a beat, the silhouette raises a hand, and from the hand a multi-pronged hook attached to a thin wire shoots up to catch on the bars of the catwalk that span the ceiling.

 

“Holy fuck,” Duke says, at the same time that Kyle chokes out, “Oh my god, is that a _grappling hook?_ ”

 

The figure lands in a graceful crouch on the ceiling just as LunchMoney Lewis begins chanting _“Brixten girls, dem a pat the pum pum, dem a whine up dem waist, dem a pat the pum pum,”_ and an excited scream of realization ripples through the crowd as Nightwing rises to his feet, pacing backward as he sways to the beat of the hook. “No fucking way,” Jason says, almost too stunned to speak—but the crowd loves it, nearly deafening in how loud they cheer as Nightwing laughs and bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for his cue—

 

_“Yo,”_ Nicki drawls, and Nightwing leaps into action, arms raising in an aggressive greeting, then sweeping back down to grab at his hips in a chest-to-crotch roll to _“he in love with a ghetto girl.”_ Skip back on the next line, hands sliding up his chest and around the base of his neck—leap forward again to swing low to the floor with _“pet, pet like a kitty cat,”_ followed by a swift spin on one foot that generates just enough momentum to propel him into a quick jump—land on a forceful jab to the _“pop!”_ of the synthesizer over Nicki’s voice, then snap upright with hands in fighting position to _“he tryna kick it like a ninja—“_

 

“Yo, are you watching this?” Duke crows, his yells barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “He’s doing Nicki! You can’t go wrong with Nicki, either!”

 

“This style is quite different from his performance last week,” Kori observes, watching the performance with a thoughtful expression. “He is proving himself to be not only skilled, but also diverse in his—” She drops off abruptly, eyes widening as her mouth opens in shock. _“X’hal.”_

 

As Nicki’s first verse finishes, Nightwing rolls onto his feet and reaches for the handle of the grappling hook, still dangling at face height where he left it after he first landed. As the quick beat of the rap segues into the slower melody of the chorus, he grasps the handle and squeezes the trigger—and up he goes, carried into the air by the retracting wire. _“I know that you want it,”_ Nicki sings, and he’s releasing the trigger, the wire going slack in his hand as he begins to fall—only to use the momentum of the descent to propel himself into a midair backflip timed perfectly to end feet-down just as the wire delivers him back to the stage. He shoots up again on _“I see that you watching,”_ repeating the exact same maneuver, except this time he flips forward, legs kicking out into a flawless split while he’s upside-down—then again and again, like a human yoyo twisting and leaping in time to each line of the chorus. The entire experience is surreal, and Jason turns to Roy, already started on an incredulous rant—

 

—only to falter mid-sentence at the look on Roy’s face. He’s gone pale and stone-still, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes glittering with a mix of anger and something Jason can’t identify as he stares at the stage. “Harper,” Jason says, as the chorus ends and Nightwing releases the grappling hook, transitioning back into his snappy, cheeky routine as the rap starts up again. “Roy.”

 

Roy looks at him, and Jason blinks; he looks sick. “Roy,” he repeats, worried now. “You okay?”

 

Roy just shakes his head, like he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. “Unbelievable,” he says, lip curling. “Fucking unbelievable.”

 

Jason frowns and reaches out to curl his fingers gently around Roy’s forearm. It’s something they do often for each other, to ground one another and keep them close to the earth. “C’mon, Harper,” he says. “What is it?”

 

Roy hesitates, chewing on his lip; then he exhales forcefully and shifts closer, like he’s about to tell Jason a secret.

 

“Shit!” a voice shouts into the microphone, and the music cuts out so abruptly the record scratches. Nightwing, in the middle of a complicated set of footwork, stumbles and stops, looking up in confusion, but the DJ offers no time to recover as he throws himself at the mic and shouts, “Raid! Everyone get out!”

 

There’s a moment of stunned silence—then chaos erupts as panic sweeps over the room, frightened shouts bursting into the air. The crowd turns into a stampede as hundreds of people rush for the exits, desperate to be gone by the time the police show up, and in the madness Jason is jostled, shoved aside, and finally knocked off-balance, landing hard on his knees as countless bodies sweep past him. “Fuck,” he curses, scrambling to his feet—but in the space of the handful of seconds he spent on the floor, Roy, Kori, Duke, and Kyle have all disappeared, lost in the streams of desperate people all heading for the exits. 

 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he repeats, feeling real panic well in his chest. He spins around, fighting against the tide, and searches the crowd for Kori’s fiery hair, Duke’s metallic gold cap—but it’s impossible to see far in the chaos and half-light inside the theater. Someone practically bowls into his left shoulder, and he stumbles backward, heart leaping into his throat as he feels the current begin to drag him down again—

 

A strong grip closes around his hand and yanks him upward, steadying him on his feet again. Jason swallows, relief flooding his throat, and looks up, a grateful, “Thanks, Harper,” already on his tongue—

 

—only to be met with a pair of brilliant blue eyes and an almost-familiar smile, just visible under a dark cowl. “C’mon,” Nightwing says, and tugs at his arm. “I know a faster way out.”

 

Jason is too stunned to do anything but follow as Nightwing leads them through the crowd, weaving his way through the ocean of bodies with a grace so singular it’s almost surreal to be attached to it. Within a minute they’re in a small wing of the theater that extends off of the main room, free from the sucking riptide of the crowd—and then twenty seconds after that they’re bursting out of a side exit, into a clean, quiet alley that runs adjacent to the building.

 

The doors swing shut behind them, and Nightwing collapses to the wall, panting heavily through his cowl. For a solid minute, they just slump there together, shoulder-to-shoulder against the brick, struggling to catch their breath. They can still hear the sounds of the crowd, the thunder of their footsteps heavy but muffled as they stream out of the main exit of the theater and fan out into the night.

 

At last, Nightwing straightens. “Hey,” he says, and Jason starts, looking up. Nightwing’s eyes are on him, startlingly blue. “You know where your people are?”

 

Jason swallows, trying not to think about the fact that he’s standing here with Nightwing— _the_ Nightwing, viral video star and dance sensation the world over. His voice is clear and smooth, with an earnest quality to it that makes him sound kind—somehow, that’s so much worse than any sexy or raspy baritone that Jason could’ve imagined for him. “Uh,” he says, intelligently. “No, I—I lost track of them in that— _madness_ back there—”

 

“Call them,” Nightwing suggests. “I’ll wait with you.”

 

Jason blinks at him, at a loss. _Jesus_ , he thinks, _who_ is _this guy?_ Still, he won’t complain—only an idiot would prefer to be alone while in a dark alley in Gotham at night. He reaches into his jacket pocket, fishes out his phone, and hits the first speed dial shortcut.

 

Roy picks up on the second ring. “Jason!” he shouts; from the volume of his voice and the background noise spilling over the line, it’s clear he’s still where the majority of the crowd is. “Where are you?”

 

“Uh—” Jason squints at the sign at the mouth of the alley. “Brixton Alley, next to the theater. Are you guys okay?”

 

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Roy says. “We’ll come find you, okay? Don’t move.”

 

“Right,” Jason says. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

 

When he pockets the phone again, Nightwing is, as promised, still there. Jason glances up at him and licks his lips, unsure; finally, he settles on a simple, “Thanks.”

 

There’s a quirk under the fabric of Nightwing’s cowl that Jason takes as a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

 

Jason reaches up to scrub his fingers distractedly through his hair. “Sorry your performance was ruined.”

 

Nightwing lets out a bark of laughter. “It’s fine,” he says. “Kinda more memorable this way, isn’t it?”

 

Jason snorts. “Not really,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re pretty fucking good on your own, even without the added excitement of a police raid.”

 

Nightwing blinks, looking genuinely surprised, and—shit, is Jason hallucinating or is that a _blush_ dusting the top of his cheekbones? “Thanks,” he laughs, and dear lord, he _does_ sound embarrassed—honestly, that’s so adorable it should be illegal. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t even there for my routine,” he points out.

 

Nightwing chuckles. “Nah, I was watching,” he says. “Seeing all the performances is the best part of every competition; I wouldn’t miss it. The DJ just wanted to make it seem like I wasn’t there so I could do a dramatic entrance later. Apparently it helps hype up his events if Nightwing busts in at the end like some second coming instead of just performing with the rest of the crews.”

 

“Ah,” Jason hums. “So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re just a regular guy like the rest of us, huh?”

 

Nightwing tilts his head, and Jason senses, somehow, that he’s frowning. “Well, yeah,” he says. “What else would I be?”

 

Jason takes a moment to just blink at him, a slow smirk growing on his lips. _Honestly, is this guy even real?_ “Alright, then,” he starts, “if you’re really trying to convince me that you’re just a regular guy, then you can teach me that parkour shit you do— _then_ we might actually be on the same level.”

 

Nightwing lets out a surprised laugh. His eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “It’s not parkour. It’s acrobatics.”

 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Right. You’re really helping yourself out there.”

 

“Jason!”

 

Jason starts, turning to see Roy and Kori hurrying towards him, Duke and Kyle following close behind. “Shit, Jay, you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Jason says, gesturing behind him, “Nightwing got me—”

 

But the alley is empty, just him and the trash bins against the wall to keep each other company.

 

Roy’s stopped, and he’s eyeing Jason with a tense, unhappy look. “Nightwing was here?” he asks.

 

“Uh.” Jason blinks, frowning at the vacant space. “Yeah, he actually—”

 

Kori sighs, loudly, and steps forward, grabbing both of them by the arm so she can drag them towards the street. “Talk later,” she says. “Leave now.”

 

“Yeah, now’s not the best moment for storytime,” Kyle agrees, glancing up the road, and Jason hears it—sirens, drawing rapidly closer.

 

“Right,” Jason says, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the crew; it probably is best that they fuck off before the police come and arrest them for trespassing. “I’ll tell you guys everything when we get home, okay? Honestly—it’s kind of a hell of a story.”

 

~*~

 

Ever since Jason first inherited the garage from Old Ducra, the ancient, somewhat psychotic old crone who taught Jason everything he knows about fixing cars, there has been one day a week in which Red Hood Automatics is not open: Sunday, the golden day, because it is a holy day—and for some people, _the_ holy day—and Jason is not a goddamn heathen. Sunday is meant for slow mornings, dozing late, blinking awake at ten just to laze around in bed for another hour before getting up for bacon, and sometimes even pancakes. Sunday is _not_ , coincidentally, a day for being rudely awoken at five in the goddamn morning, especially if it's by four grown-ass adults jumping into one’s bed, even if one does have  _children_ for roommates who apparently cannot contain themselves long enough to just _wait_ until after sunrise to deliver good news.

 

“Jaybird!” Roy shouts as he crashes onto Jason’s bed, as loud as he possibly can because he is a complete and utter _asshole_. “Jason, wake your perky little ass up—we’re fucking _in!_ ”

 

“ _Wha_ ,” Jason slurs, raising his head from where it’s buried deep in his pillow, because it is five in the goddamn morning, thank you very much. “Harper—the fuck?”

 

“Dude, we’re in!” Kyle crows, throwing himself across Jason’s legs, startling a breathless _oof_ out of Jason as a stray knee lands conveniently in Jason’s ribs. “Can you believe it? We made it!”

 

“Rayner, get _off_ me,” Jason grunts, forcibly shoving Kyle aside. “What are you two talking about? And what the _fuck_ are you all doing in my room at this fucking ungodly hour of the morning?”

 

“Jason,” Kori says, climbing up onto the bed to kneel gracefully at Jason’s side. “We received the invitation. We have been invited to compete.”

 

Jason stares at her, mouth dry, head still muddled with sleep but rapidly clearing as Kori’s words sink in. “Are you—are you talking about Street Fleet?” He sucks in a sharp breath. “We made it?”

 

“Yeah, dude,” Duke laughs, ambling forward to join the pile-up on the bed. He holds up his phone for Jason to read, the message displayed on the screen. “We made it.”

 

“Holy shit,” Jason says. He looks up from the phone to the four bright, exhilarated faces surrounding him, and begins to smile. “Holy _shit._ ”

 

The room erupts into excited chatter, shouts and laughter echoing off the walls of Jason’s tiny bedroom, and for once, Sunday forgives the disturbance of its usual peace.

 

~*~

 

Across town, Dick wakes in his studio apartment in upper Gotham to a single text on his phone—three brief sentences, from an unknown number, the same one that first texted him three days ago.

 

_You’re in. Round 1: 9/12, midnight. Location TBD._

 

Dick stares at it for a moment, breathless—then a broad grin breaks out across his face, any residual sleep still lingering on him chased away by the flood of excitement. He rolls onto his back and spends a second just looking up at the ceiling, mind whirling with possibilities; then he reaches for his phone again, goes into _Missed Calls,_ and hits the most recent name.

 

“Hey, Wals,” he says, when the person on the other line picks up. “Sorry I missed your call—last night was kinda crazy. Do you have time today? I have something you might want to hear about.”

**Author's Note:**

> finally...the nightwing/jason interaction you've all been waiting for.........for a total of, like, two fics and 5 days.........
> 
> honestly tho, this dumb trashy dance au is like 95% of everything i care about right now, and all i can hope for is that you're all as obsessed with it as i am. i have 3 more plot-establishing fics planned, but i don't know if i want to hit you with all of them at once, so i'm opening up prompts! the whole reason why i made this au into a series instead of just one long multi-chaptered fic is because i want it to be an open universe with lots of exploratory drabbles that people can contribute to and participate in. shoot me an ask at perissologist.tumblr.com/ask if you have ideas, or if you just want to chat--i'm always there ;) 
> 
> p.s. if you haven't been checking out the choreography videos i've been posting in the start notes yet, i really recommend that you do! they're crazy fun and full of people with insane talent, plus i base a lot of the dancing in this fic off of them and watching those videos will probably make my attempts at writing choreography more bearable for you. also, reading dancing is always better when you know what the music sounds like.
> 
> with that said, i'll leave you all alone for now. thanks for reading! <3


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